Poems by Violet Fane [i.e. M. M. Lamb] :: :: University of Virginia Library

He stands in the desolate chamber,
Snorting and pricking his ears,
With the dauntless glance
And the spirited prance
That we knew in the bygone years;

For full thirty summers and winters,
From the dawn to the close of the day,
Has he dwelt in this room,
With never a groom,
Or ever a feed of hay.

The roof is so dingy with cobwebs,
The window so coated with grime,
That he only knows
By the caws of the crows
The morn from the evening-time.

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The mice, in their frolicsome revels,
Sport over him night and day,
And the burrowing moth
In his saddle-cloth
Has never been flick'd away;

It is seldom his desolate dwelling
Ever echoes to human tread,
And its carpetless floor
Is all litter'd o'er
With the relics of days long dead.

What a medley of eloquent lumber
Do his proud eyes lighten upon,
From those drums and flutes
To the high snow boots
And the mouldering stuff'd wild swan;

And the ruinous magic-lantern,
And the bottomless butterfly net,
And the cage for the doves,
And the prize-fighter's gloves,
And the rickety old spinnet!

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He must know, this spirited charger,
As he snorts and pricks up his ears,
Why my heart is in pain
As I toy with his mane
And my eyes are half blind with tears;

He must know who slept in that old swing cot,
And who sat in that tiny chair,
And who flew the great kite
That ghostly and white
Leans up in the corner there;

And the bats, and the balls, and the ninepins,
And the boat with the batter'd prow,
Ah, that charger tall
Knows who play'd with them all,
And how sound some are sleeping now!

Yet, for all this burden of knowledge,
His bearing is proud and high,
With the dauntless glance
And the spirited prance
That we knew in the days gone by;

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And in spite of his lonely confinement,
His muscles are firmly strung,
For the passing of Time,
That has wither'd our prime
Has left him still fresh and young.

He wears saddle, and stirrups, and snaffle,
And frontlet of faded blue,
And a bridle rein
On his flowing mane,
And a tail that fits on with a screw.

Alas, for the sorrows and changes
Since, mounting this dappled grey,
With whip in hand
To some fairy land
I was speedily borne away!

On, on, to those unknown regions
Where all are so fair and kind! . . .
And away and away
Goes the gallant grey,
And we leave the world behind!

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How his stout green rockers are creaking!
How his long tail feathers and streams! . . .
How his whole frame thrills
With “the pace that kills”
As we hie to the land of dreams!

Of those times, so good to remember,
Few vestiges now remain,
Yet here, to-day,
Stands my gallant grey,
With saddle and bridle-rein;

And I think, as I stroke him sadly,
“For awhile, how sweet it would be
If the women and men,
Who were children then,
Could be all as unchanged as he!”